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Featuring more than 80 works by Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera and more than 60 photographs of them by other artists, the exhibition’s stated aim is to show how their paintings reflect the dramatic story of their lives together and their artistic commitment to the politics of 1930s, 1940s and 1950s Mexico.

Frida & Diego contains several not-to-be-missed masterpieces (see sidebar for a few). But I wasn’t convinced that the show succeeds in providing an accurate sense of Frida and Diego’s lives together — or of their politics, either.

The exhibition opens with a large photograph of the couple embracing in San Francisco in 1931, as well as some small portraits and self-portraits.

Next comes Rivera’s early European works — including some Cubist paintings in the style of his Paris-days friend Picasso. Then, there’s a display about the overtly politicized murals and paintings Rivera’s best known for, including one where Kahlo hands out arms to the Mexican people.

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From there, Kahlo’s early years and some of her paintings — such as 1932’s A Few Small Nips, her fingerprints visible on the frame — are shown before viewers enter a room where works by both artists hang together.

In many ways, this room’s a must-see, as it’s rare to see Riveras and Kahlos displayed side by side.

However, it’s hard to know what conclusions to draw from this display, as some earlier, less skilled Kahlos are paired with more mature, assured Riveras. Perhaps this is meant to balance the fact that a smaller proportion of Rivera’s career is represented in the show — or the fact that Kahlo’s work tends to surpass Rivera’s in integrating ambiguity and darkness, offering a haunting complexity that’s made her beloved of so many more contemporary viewers. (When they were alive, he was the star, not her.)

An adjacent room of Kahlo self-portraits demonstrates her particular genius. Here as elsewhere, Kahlo transforms great personal pain — an accident at 18 which led to lifelong surgeries; a miscarriage and confirmation of infertility at 25; a marriage to Diego marked by repeated, mutual adultery — into a strength that’s both disturbing and healing.

Given Kahlo’s ever-steady painted gaze, it’s somewhat shocking to encounter, in the exhibition’s final room, photographs that show her in hospital, in a plaster corset, and in bed. Here, the artist was less able to control her own image, and we see Kahlo more vulnerable, weary and frail.

The pain of Kahlo’s later-life decline is underlined by three nearby paintings: The Circle, of a disintegrating body; Flower of Life, of a menacing, dazzling plant; and Without Hope, of the artist being force-fed a cornucopia of deathly flesh.

Closer to the exit, however, are remarkable works by Kahlo that reaffirm her love for Rivera and the strength he provided her with. One of these, painted on the occasion of their 15th anniversary, shows a half-Diego, half-Frida visage displayed in a tiny, worn seashell frame.

The exhibition tries to end on an up note, with photos of Frida and Diego embracing and the words “Viva la Vida” (“Long Live Life”) etched on the wall — not to mention a post-gift-shop display created by Toronto’s Shadowland Theatre that portrays the couple as grinning skeletons painting together in death.

While this desire for a happy conclusion is understandable, I felt in this tidy end a loss of the troubled, real-life complexity of Frida and Diego’s relationship — of the complexity so well reflected in many of Kahlo’s own paintings.

Politics that the show promises to elucidate also felt superficially treated. Little information is offered about the revolution that inspired Rivera and Kahlo, and viewers are often left alone to decode how these themes filtered into Kahlo’s work.

Whether inspiring or dismaying, the exhibition Frida & Diego provides much to be passionate about.

The tiniest work in the show packs a punch. Painted by Kahlo for their 15th anniversary, the half-Diego, half-Frida visage viscerally reaffirms their connection. Its seashell frame allows viewers to imagine it resting in a place of honour in Kahlo and Rivera’s own home.

Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair 1940

The work that launched a million gender studies essays is available for firsthand inspection here, with Kahlo taking on a more masculine look and costume — but her steely gaze remaining.

My Nurse and I 1937

Kahlo’s trademark mix of compelling and disturbing, personal and political is set near maximum levels as her adult head, attached to a baby’s body, suckles on the teat of a large, masked woman. The mask, based on indigenous designs, is meant to signal Kahlo’s respect for Mexico’s native tribes, while the composition also refers to Kahlo’s having been passed along to a wet nurse at the age of 11 months.

The Broken Column 1944

Many of Kahlo’s self-portraits evoke author Siri Hustvedt’s observation that “the mirror is the only place where I am whole to myself.” That’s most directly seen here as Kahlo’s broken bones and spirit are transformed into a powerful (if painful) whole.

Flower Festival: Feast of Santa Anita 1931

It would be remiss not to mention at least one work by Diego Rivera. This one debuted at New York’s Museum of Modern Art during the museum’s second-ever solo show. (The first was Matisse’s.) The content is a great example of Rivera’s desire to honour Mexican culture and rituals following his Cubist-influenced European adventures. The painting’s style is also a form of regional homage, reflecting the tropes of pre-Columbian sculpture.

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